


Unredeemable Actions

by EbonyAura



Series: MEGOP WEEK 2020 [4]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: #megopweek2020, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barbarian/Tribal AU, Cultural Differences, Depression, Forced Bonding, HAPPY MEGOP WEEK, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Depression, References to Fighting, References to kidnapping, Sad with a Happy Ending, reference to attempted escape, suicidal starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22087747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyAura/pseuds/EbonyAura
Summary: HAPPY MEGOP WEEK!Day 3: Cultural DifferencesMegatron's new mate from the city is not adjusting well to life among the Decepticon tribe. Luckily, Megatron's fellow warrior and confidante, Soundwave, is both bilingual and intuitive. But it's up to him to soothe the spark that has been broken.
Relationships: Blitzwing/Bumblebee, Lugnut/Strika, Megatron/Optimus Prime
Series: MEGOP WEEK 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583281
Comments: 4
Kudos: 135
Collections: MegOP Week 2020





	Unredeemable Actions

**Author's Note:**

> Ok a couple things:  
> 1) A couldn't decide whether it was more barbarian or native I was going for. Nobody gets raped here, but there's still a kidnapping, so I put both in the tags to signal something in between.  
> 2) You may be wondering why I inserted 4 TFA characters and an IDW douche into a TFP fandom story. Well, I'm glad you asked imaginary questioner, the answer is because I adore those three bumbling morons, Strika's a bad@$$, kind of needed a douche (Tarn seemed to fit) and wanted to put them all in one of my fics. Don't like it? Exit tab's in the top right hand corner.  
> 3) At one point, Optimus mentions his grandsire (you'll see). For the intent of this story, that's going to be Alpha Trion. He's not really mentioned and has no real influence here, but just in case you're wondering there's your answer.  
> 4) WARNING! There's some mature themes here, like on-purpose starvation, kidnapping, and force-bonding.  
> 5) I don't own the characters, I just like playing with them. 
> 
> Alright have a nice day.

Dry cryo-grass spread across the landscape, waving in the wind and crinkling under their peds as they trekked across the flat terrain. Above them, the unforgiving sun blasted their armor with hot rays. The hunters paid it no mind, following the path they’d stomped out at dawn. They’d walked these plains long enough to classify it as nothing more than an annoyance on the worst of days.  
  
“You led a magnificent hunt today, Megatron! Our tribe will feast well on your bounty!”  
  
The silver mech leading the hunting party rolled his optics, grunting as he shifted the dead-weight of the mecha-buck on his spiked shoulder. Lugnut, though an admittedly decent hunter and fierce warrior, really needed to give up his relentless pursuit of the Decepticon tribe’s heir. It was becoming exasperating.  
  
“Give up your meaningless prattle, Lugnut. He already knows.”  
  
Blitzwing, another of the tribe’s warriors, called from behind both of them. Megatron glanced back to see the triple charger march forward to his other side, watching as the mech’s face suddenly spun with a whirr.  
  
“Or maybe if you keep trying, he’ll get mad enough to pound your optic in!”  
  
He cackled with a venomous, crimson grin, the mecha-doe slung over his cannons flopping as he pranced in place. Blitzwing was one of the best strategy hunters their tribe had ever seen, not to mention one of the only mechs he could confide in. Did it matter that he only came with one-third of a working processor? Only when he ripped out another tribe member’s neck cables with his denta. But everyone knew Tarn had it coming.  
  
Lugnut at this point looked ready to rip his prey off his shoulders and slam it into the triple charger’s face, something the silver mech could not approve of when he was currently in the way.  
  
“Cease your groveling, both of you” he growled, eyeing both of them but pointing it more in Lugnut’s direction. “If you wish to spill more energon on my behalf, do so by gutting our bounty when we return to camp.”  
  
Another whirr signaled Blitzwing’s switch back to his logical face. He remained silent, while Lugnut grumbled in his direction while acknowledging the silver mech.  
  
“As you command.”  
  
Megatron looked ahead. The path was coming to a small incline. Just beyond the incline he knew they would begin to see smoke from their camp’s firepits in the distance. It would not be long before they arrived.  
  
“Would Strika not be more impressed by the pelt of your kill, rather than watching you needlessly fight one of our fellow warriors?”  
  
He pressed soon after, wanting to avoid grudges as well as drive the fact that _they both were mated_. Lugnut’s single optic shuttered, as if taken off-guard, before he nodded adamantly.  
  
“Oh, yes! Strika would be much more impressed by a new pelt! I shall work on it immediately upon our return!”  
  
As if to prove the validity of his new goal, he stomped ahead of the other two warriors, taking point on the trail back. Though at times a part of him was a bit dismayed by Lugnut’s newfound loyalty in the admittedly ferocious femme, Megatron didn’t mind when it got him to shut up. Strika fell hard for Lugnut and nearly pounded the mech’s helm into the ground before he realized it. They were happily mated, as long as Megatron didn’t walk by and catch Lugnut’s attention.  
The train of thought brought him to his own mate, causing something in his chest to tighten. He didn’t have any time to focus on it before Blitzwing’s face whirred again.  
  
“Ooooh! My little bug needs a new pelt! The energon stains will bring out his pretty optics!”  
  
Blitzwing cooed and pranced again, swooning at the end in a way that caused Megatron to smirk. Then, deflate. Like the silver mech, the triple charger had found his mate on the previous city caravan raid a couple months before now. Bumblebee was a brightly-colored minibot, which was an odd sight among burly warriors. But he was a spitfire, fierce despite his size and apparently uncaring of Blitzwing’s mental instability either. The triple charger was drawn to him like a magnet, and Bumblebee actually warmed up to him pretty quickly. Megatron never missed the moments when the little yellow bot jumped up and dragged his angry face down for a kiss. He also didn’t miss when the warrior’s faces switched, his logical face melted, and his engine purred. Those moments happened more and more these days.  
  
His spark churned again, bringing back that tight feeling in his chest, and his clawed servos clenched around the legs of his buck.  
  
The fellow warrior must’ve noticed something was off about his demeanor, because his faces switched again, and he looked back at the silver mech.  
  
“Will the horns of your prey be the prize you bring back to your mate?”  
  
Megatron held back a grumble, staring straight ahead as they crested the small hill and caught the scent of distant smoke.  
  
“No. I doubt he would not acknowledge them anyway.”  
  
Blitzwing shuttered a single optic at him, his rough EM field emanating his confusion.  
  
“By now I would’ve thought he’d start adjusting to the ways of the tribe. Does he not like mecha-deer?”  
  
Shaking his helm once, the silver mech did not fight off the sigh that racked his frame as he walked.  
  
“It does not matter what I give him. Mecha-deer, rabbit, robo-chicken, robo-turkey, mecha-sheep—he will have none of it.”  
  
Blitzwing’s face whirred, and rage swirled around him almost visibly.  
  
“That ungrateful piece of scrap!” he snarled, his face then spinning back to blue. “Will he not eat at all?”  
  
Once again, Megatron should his helm, that tight feeling in his chest intensifying.  
  
“He has not touched anything in days.”  
  
Singular optic flashing, the triple charger turned his upper body to face the tribe’s heir better.  
  
“That is alarming. I recall him being a bot of courageous spirit.”  
  
Megatron did too. He remembered the moment they met as if it had just happened. Like all city mecha their tribe came across, he held little skill with a weapon. But he was of tall and strong stature, almost as tall as Megatron himself. He came to the defense of those more vulnerable than himself without second thought, faced the silver mech even as fear coursed through his field. He _challenged_ Megatron, something no one else had ever done.  
  
That was the day the tribe’s mighty heir had been conquered, and he realized how much he wanted this mech as his mate.  
  
“You have done everything to assure him of his comfort here? Of his place among us?”  
  
Not many would’ve questioned that he would. It was disgraceful to assume that the heir of their tribe would forego his duties to a mate that would one day give him his own progenies. But Blitzwing did, as did Soundwave two days previous.  
  
As it turned out, he had done almost everything in his power to avoid this outcome. He’d given his mate every pelt he owned, going so far as to hunt down a pack of cyber-wolves for their soft fur. He’d offered him every kind of meat, stew, and produce the tribe could give. The only thing he touched was energon from the streams. Megatron had built him a new bow, even gave him one of his own swords. Frag it all, he’d even gone to Soundwave to learn the strange dialect of city mecha and spoke to him in both tongues. Even with as little as he knew, he begged the mech to tell what he wanted, what would convince him to accept that he was now a part of the tribe.  
  
The only thing he ever received in return were quiet, one-worded answers. Sometimes in his tongue, sometimes in city-dialect. That, and vacant looks from increasingly dim optics. The sight put something cold in his energon lines. He greatly admired those cerulean blue optics, an aura of beautiful blue surrounding an iron will.  
  
Megatron had come to receive something similar to the defeated glare a predator would give him instants before death. It was a victory he didn’t realize he’d taken, and never wanted to take from his mate. _Why_ , in the name of the spirits, did his mate look at him that way? _What had he done wrong?_  
  
“I have. Nothing has worked in my favor so far.”  
  
He finally grumbled, observing as Lugnut tromped forward towards the circle of tents they could now see at the edge of the horizon. Blitzwing paused, seemingly thinking over the answer, and then pulled the front legs of the doe to sling it over the other shoulder.  
  
“Have you spoken to Soundwave about this?”  
  
The triple charger asked, a perceptive glint to his optic telling the silver mech he already knew the answer. Indeed, he had spoken to Soundwave. Multiple times over the past few months, in fact. With the situation becoming as dire as it was, the telepath had visited his mate himself the day before, coming back out of the tent just kliks later to relay to Megatron he had an idea.  
  
“Yes. His suggestion is the reason I led today’s hunt.”  
  
Blitzwing raised an optical brow at the silver mech.  
  
“I thought you said you mate does not like mecha-deer?”  
  
Megatron looked over at the triple charger with an indistinguishable expression.  
  
“This buck will not be for him. It is a trade-off I will give to Soundwave.”  
  
Caught off-guard, the fellow hunter stared at him for another long moment before finally letting the question loose.  
  
“A trade-off? For what?”  
  
The crimson optics that stared back were soon accompanied by a slowly-growing smirk.  
  
If this worked, he would find out soon enough.

***

Megatron paused in front of his tent, the front flaps of it drawn tightly closed. As expected, there was only one set of tracks coming out of it: his from when he’d departed early in the morning. The sight was more disturbing than it was relieving. His mate had tried escaping three times in the first month after coming here. He did not attempt to leave ever since. At least in that period of time, the silver mech knew he was willing to show himself. To fight.  
  
He glanced back at Soundwave, whose optics he knew were watching him behind the dark faceplate.  
  
“Order: do not leave tent again until mate acknowledges gifts. Suggestion: If he speaks, do not interrupt, and encourage more. Topic of discussion: irrelevant. Objective: share true interaction.”  
  
The telepath tipped his helm forward at him as he spoke, driving the vitality of the words. Megatron’s intake nearly lifted into a one-sided smirk, and he was tempted to tease his fellow warrior’s tone. Instead, he acknowledged him with a nod.  
  
“Thank you, Soundwave.”  
  
Grasping the legs of the mecha-buck around his shoulders, the telepath nodded back before turning and departing. The silver mech turned back towards the tent, venting to prepare himself before pulling back the flaps and ducking into the tent. They fell shut behind him, and his optics reset to the softer lighting inside, immediately resting on the sole occupant within.  
  
His mate lay curled on his side facing the back of the tent, helm resting on one of his bent arms. One of the pelts he’d offered was draped over the mech’s lower half, leaving his upper body exposed. The vibrancy of his red and blue colored plating had faded, leaving him a dull and sickly-looking creature. If he gazed closely, he could see the mech’s side rise and fall with an occasional shudder, indicating his ventilations. At the far edge of the pelt, the bowl of warm energon he’d set out for him before departing sat cold and untouched.  
  
Megatron’s spark ached at the sight, and he closed his optics with another deep vent to push the feeling aside.  
  
“Optimus. I have returned.”  
  
He spoke quietly, hoping to not spook him. He received no response, reasoning his mate was most likely awake. If he called upon him while he recharged, the mech usually startled online and panicked. With slow movements he gravitated towards the fire pit in the middle of the tent, stoking it to rekindle the embers. Then, he lowered himself to sit cross-legged a few lengths away from where the mech lay.  
  
“I know you prefer to remain here. I will not dissuade you from it,” he began in the city dialect, hoping it would make a difference this time. “I’ve brought you something. I am told it helps to pass the time when one is inside.”  
  
The concept as well as the words were foreign to him as a mech who thrived outside. But he thought he caught the slightest tilt of his mate’s helm in his direction. Hoping that it was real and ready to work with it, the silver mech opened his subspace.  
  
“Soundwave helped me to procure it. He knows the way to the city caravan trails better than I do.”  
  
When the words “city caravan” slipped out of his intake, this time he knew he saw it. The blue helm moved about the length of half his digit over a broad shoulder, and the corner of a dim blue optic was visible to his observation. Megatron grinned at the sight, pulling the fragile screens out of his subspace.  
  
“I hope these… datapads, are to your liking, my mate.”  
  
Megatron stumbled over the word in the unfamiliar language, but the pronunciation was somewhat correct. Soundwave had gone over it with him three times before even trading them off. Though he felt like a sparkling attempting to coax a mecha-colt away from its carrier steed, he placed the three datapads in his grasp on the ground and slid them towards the other mech. Then, he slid backwards, diverting his attention away to take the bowl of cold energon back and warm it up again over the rekindled fire.  
  
For a klik, nothing happened. He resolved himself to be patient despite the impetuosity rising in his field. Then, out of the corner of his optic, he noticed that blue helm move again. He froze in what he was doing, watching carefully. It swung to face the back of the tent, but then Optimus’s shoulders shifted. One arm appeared underneath him as he slowly, _ever so slowly_ , turned over so that he was facing the rest of the tent. A stray processing thread wondered why he wouldn’t move any faster until he noticed the way his limb struts tremored. Optimus pushed himself upward, and his entire frame quaked, as if it took every ounce of strength he had left to perform the action. He hadn’t eaten in _days_ , hadn’t moved in _weeks_ , and the effects were showing.  
  
It tore at the warrior to see a strong, dazzling mech like Optimus so weak. But he resolved to keep his composure and let the mech move on his own instead of crowding him anymore than he already might’ve.  
  
Finally, Optimus reached out, taking one of the datapads in a shaky servo. The digits of his other servo brushed over its screen, as if in reverence of the object. He then pressed something on top of the screen, causing it to light up. Megatron couldn’t help looking up, staring in amazement. Were datapads supposed to do that? Soundwave hadn’t told him much about them, only to listen if Optimus did.  
  
Whatever it was that appeared on the small screen caused the mech to gasp quietly. His jaw dropped. Dim blue optics went wide and turned brighter than he’d seen them since they’d first met. His digits dragged over the screen with feather-light touches, shaking even harder. The expression of shock and amazement that shivered over his features shook his dormant EM field as well, and the sight of it was breathtaking.  
  
“Th… This is… the Legends of the Primes.”  
  
Megatron’s spark halted. His mate’s voice was hushed, raspy and staticky from underuse, but he was speaking. Optimus was speaking. He placed the bowl of energon on a rack over the firepit to sit and watch as the mech put down the datapad in his servos and picked up another one, also making it light up.  
  
“… And this… this is the Covenant of… of the Golden Ages.”  
  
He had no idea who the Primes were, neither did he know what a covenant was or the golden ages. He could only assume these were stories somehow put into the bright screens. But his mate’s tone was rising, becoming something more than suppressed and wispy. Whatever they were, they were important to Optimus. He reached for the final datapad, and when it clicked on, Megatron swore to the spirits he saw coolant brimming around those blue optics.  
  
“The Tales of Cybertron’s Knights… This was… one of my favorites…”  
  
A favorite? Megatron hadn’t thought much of these when Soundwave suggested them, much less that his mate would have a _favorite_ datapad. He owed the telepath another mecha-buck for this.  
  
He froze when Optimus looked up from the datapads, the third one clutched tightly in quivering servos and blue optics wide in astonishment, confusion, and wariness. This was the first time Optimus had actually looked at him in over two months.  
  
“H-How…? How did you get these?”  
  
Resting his elbows on his knees, Megatron refrained from giving a one-sided shrug and faced him with what he hoped was a gentle expression.  
  
“Soundwave was a city mech once. Became a part of the tribe long ago. He’s also a telepath. Helped me to understand how important these datapads are to you, as an… archivist. If you truly like them, I will work with him to find more. I will seek out as many as I can carry to bring back to you with every trip I take.”  
  
Slowly annunciating the word, Megatron hid his pride at being able to say the title of position, as Soundwave had called it, right this time. Optimus only continued to stare at him. The warrior’s gaze averted before returning to those piercing blue optics.  
  
“I realize I haven’t been a… good mate to you. I’ve tried to give you all the wrong things. I can only hope with these, we can begin to build trust, my mate.”  
  
Optimus did not respond at first, looking back down at the datapads in front of him for a long few kliks. His field swirled around him, waiting for some semblance of acknowledgement, of trust, of rejection, anything. _Patience_ , he chastised himself, pulling his field back in to stay composed. He must be patient.  
  
The long few kliks passed, and when Optimus looked up at him again, it was with a flat expression. His optics were dim yet burning with repressed anger.  
  
“You kidnapped me,” he hissed, animosity now rising into his voice. “You took me away from my home, my people, my grandsire… and you expect me to trust you?”  
  
The threads of his processor where the morals of a warrior and the tribe were stamped curled indignantly. But there it was, behind the blue aura, he could see the iron will once more behind those optics. Tussling with every last shred of his dignity, Megatron reigned the anger back and stared at his mate evenly.  
  
“It is the way of my tribe for a warrior, if they should choose, to bring back mecha of other cultures to mate with, Optimus. Our lives are not easy, we do what we must to survive.”  
  
His response only caused his mate to raise an optical brow.  
  
“And you think that is an excuse to condone your actions?!”  
  
Optimus’s entire frame was quaking even harder with rage, and the datapad fell right out his servos, dropping to the ground. His field whipped out so harshly Megatron had half a mind to scoot backwards.  
  
“How would _you_ feel if a stranger attacked your friends, took you away from your home, thrust you into a hostile environment, and told you to fit into a whole new way of life?!”  
  
“Wait a klik! That’s _not_ —”  
  
The words fell short in his intake as he processed the actual question that was asked. How _would_ he feel? What would he do in that situation? When he thought about it, it seemed impossible. He would never let himself be captured. It just wasn’t an option. His tribe needed him. But what if it actually happened? What if some city mech had the audacity to drag him to the land of towering metal tents? Forced him to put away his swords, learn their language, adapt to their customs, become a completely different mech just because the fragger said so? When he thought about it… It felt _horrible_. It shook him to the core.  
  
His sneer fell away, and he stared at Optimus with disbelieving optics. It was like looking at a mech in a completely different light. Suddenly, he found that he had a whole new respect for Soundwave. For Bumblebee. For Optimus… And he found another reason that perhaps things needed to change when he became leader of the tribe.  
  
Looking at Optimus, the kindred, beautiful and courageous spirit who’s frame shook in front of him with the pangs of hunger and anger, Megatron realized what he’d done wrong.  
  
His field colored in shame, and his helm fell forward with a defeated vent.  
  
“… It is a feeling I will not soon forget,” he lamented grimly. “I am sorry to have made excuses for the suffering I’ve put you through. And… And I am sorry for taking you from your home, forcing you to become one with our way of life. It cannot be easy.”  
  
Lifting his helm, he caught sight of his mate’s expression softening in the slightest. He took it as a good sign.  
  
“But regardless of what I’ve done, I must ask you to believe I never wanted you to succumb to misery and death, Optimus. We lead a harsh life, but we do what we can to look out for one another. It is by all members coming together and preserving what life we can that the tribe survives.”  
  
Megatron paused, become conscious of the fact that he should be letting Optimus speak right now. But something in his spark was telling him he _needed_ to speak, his mate needed to hear this and needed to hear it _right now._  
  
“I brought you here, Optimus, because you are unlike any I’ve ever known. You are a stunning mech with a valiant spark. You faced me in battle, rather than cower away. You were a warrior amongst city mecha, and you captivated me. You do not deserve death, my mate, you deserve to live. I brought you here to _live_ , and perhaps someday, to help others live too.”  
  
The tremors that had overtaken his mate’s frame were beginning to calm, to his relief. Optimus once again looked away, his arms wrapping about his middle as he vented shakily.  
  
“I-I don’t… I am no warrior. I was terrified for my life that cycle, and I still am… I am nothing special.”  
  
Megatron couldn’t help it, he growled at the statement. Optimus flinched at it, immediately knocking some sense into him to shut up. The silver mech rose to his peds, striding over to his mate before sitting back down in front of him with a declarative field.  
  
“Whoever made you believe that should pray they do not meet me. No warrior lives without fear, my mate, but they choose to face their fears. We do it to hunt for our families and to defend our tribe from invaders. You did it to protect your friends. Perhaps to the mecha of the cities, that may be nothing special, but to us… To me, that is an incredible feat. It should not go ignored.”  
  
Optimus looked back up at the silver mech, his optics shimmering with unshed coolant, and he made a sound that to Megatron was something between a chuckle and a sniffle. He shook his helm somewhat absent-mindedly, gazing at the fire in the middle of the tent.  
  
“You make me sound like a Prime.”  
  
The warrior blinked, recalling the word from what his mate had commented about one of the datapads.  
  
“I… do not know what a Prime is, but if it is anything like a warrior, then I don’t see why you shouldn’t be one.”  
  
He avowed. Optimus made the sound again, this time sounding more like an insecure chuckle, and he ducked his helm. Something blue traveled over his dulled cheek plates, pronouncing it all the more, and Megatron’s spark halted again when it clicked that it was a blush. _He actually made his mate blush._ The spirits only knew how hard it was to hide the pride that was leaking into his EM field.  
  
“They are… I think… Well, they… I suppose…” Optimus trailed off, amending with a sigh. “It’s difficult to explain. The only way for it to make sense would be to tell you their history.”  
  
_Suggestion: If he speaks, do not interrupt, and encourage more. Topic of discussion: irrelevant. Objective: share true interaction._  
  
Soundwave had yet to give him a flawed suggestion in the eons they’d hunted together, and he wasn’t about to doubt the telepath now.  
  
Megatron grinned at his mate, tipping his helm a bit to show his curiosity.  
  
“Would you tell me their history?” he asked, watching the mech look back at him in a surprised expression he found endearing. “It seems I have much to learn if I am to know more about your culture and find more datapads you like.”  
  
It took another long klik, but the surprise faded into an appearance that was not quite a smile, but something softened, gentler than anger and sadness. Megatron decided he liked that appearance. Optimus nodded at last, and the tight feeling in the silver mech’s chest started to recede.  
  
His mate’s body then quivered hard, and dim blue optics glanced back and forth to something behind him.  
  
“Could I… um… May I…?”  
  
He trailed off, his tone laced in embarrassment and Megatron’s brows creased as he turned to look behind him. The fire crackled beneath the steaming bowl of energon, and realization smacked him in the face. He turned back to the other mech with a smile.  
  
“Of course, Optimus. Whatever you need, simply ask.”  
  
Rising back to his peds, the warrior stepped back to take the bowl away from the fire pit, grunting as the heat pierced his claws. Shaking his helm, he turned to the baskets lined up along the siding of the tent and fished out a thin mesh covering to wrap around it.  
  
“… The Mystery of the Matrix.”  
  
The whisper came as he was looking for a spoon, and Megatron halted as he heard it, turning his upper body around.  
  
“What did you say, my mate?”  
  
Optimus was in the midst of grabbing the pelt still draped over his legs and wrapping it around his shoulders, scooting closer to the fire pit. Well, at least now he knew his mate _did_ like the cyber-wolf fur. Even if it meant more treks to the frozen, acid-ridden tundra at the edge of the plains.  
  
“The Mystery of the Matrix. It’s another datapad I like to read… and it’s popular, it may be easier for you to find on the caravan trail.”  
  
The warrior watched him for another moment before grinning and humming in acknowledgement. It seemed that these datapads were the key to finally getting the other mech to open up to him. Megatron definitely owed Soundwave another mecha-buck for his idea. He turned back to the basket, finding a spoon below his collection of hunting knives.  
  
“And does this Matrix have anything to do with the history of the Primes?”  
  
As he closed the basket and picked up the bowl wrapped in mesh, he watched as his mate shrugged one shoulder.  
  
“Actually, it has… almost everything to do with the Primes.”  
  
So many questions circled his processor, and more were building like a wall. Megatron sat a little over an arm’s length away from him, noticing with hidden pleasure when his mate didn’t flinch. He held out the bowl, hopefully stating first and foremost the importance of refueling.  
  
“Eat, Optimus. And when you’re ready, I’m listening.”  
  
About a groon after his mate finished the bowl of energon and began the story of Cybertron’s history from the city’s point of view, Megatron realized something else. He’d held an entire conversation with the other mech in city dialect. Not once had he switched to his own tongue.  
  
By the spirits, now he owed Soundwave two bucks.


End file.
